not to show it to anyone else, or talk about it to anyone. When I say the stuff on that is confidential, I really mean it. And once you’ve finished reading it, I want you to dispose of it, carefully.’
Vincent laughed nervously, but Eddie’s face remained grim. ‘Oh, come on, Eddie, what do you expect me to do – eat it? I mean, grilled or boiled?’
Vincent caught the glimmer of a grin at that remark, but immediately it was gone. Still, Eddie had relaxed a little. This was not like the man he knew, and Vincent had an inkling of the kind of pressure the other’s job must put him under. ‘So can you give me any idea of what’s on this thing?’
‘Only a little. It’s information that corroborates and supports your theories, too much so for my liking. But it’s really important you don’t spread this around, okay? I can’t say that often enough.’ Vincent raised his hands, palms displayed towards Eddie, in a placating gesture: point taken. Eddie rolled his eyes and swirled the coffee around in the bottom of his paper cup, then put it down again.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m only down here for a few days. I’m not even officially here, kind of, so I’ll have to come back. I’m going to shake some hands and do some politics, and I’ll be back here in two days’ time. Then you can tell me what you think of what’s on that smart-sheet.’
Ursu
More days passed, and Ursu waited for some further sign that he suspected, in his more candid reflections, would never come to pass.
He spent more time with Turthe, fulfilling his new duties as a Master-in-Waiting, but with less fervour or pleasure than he might have otherwise done.
‘Did I ever tell you how I came to be the Guardian of the Book of Shecumpeh?’ Turthe began one time, while Ursu studied some of the ancillary texts Turthe kept stored on shelves in his workroom. Most of those other works recorded events in other cities, other lands, information gained through trading or war.
‘No, I don’t think you ever did,’ said Ursu. He had earlier been helping Turthe grind down a particular form of stiff, puttylike fungi – called icewort – which grew mostly under the eaves of buildings, particularly after it had been raining. It was slimy to the touch and possessed a foul smell, but was a vital ingredient for producing ink.
Rumours continued that the army outside the walls was preparing for a grand assault any day now. There had been an exchange of messages during the last two days, and Ursu had been there when Nubala’s own message-bearer had re-entered the gates of the city. Ursu noticed how the messenger’s face had looked drawn, his ears spread flat and stiff across the back of his skull.
The icebeasts in their stables had finally been sacrificed to the needs of the people, and were even now being roasted, their meat cut into long strips and salted to preserve it. The hardships of siege had long since made Turthe painfully thin, and Ursu worried lest the old Master was too frail to survive much more of it.
‘It happened when I was young,’ Turthe continued, watching his pupil work.
‘Shecumpeh showed you the Great Book and told you that you were to be its Guardian?’ Ursu spoke more sharply than he had intended. ‘You told me so.’
‘So I did,’ he said. ‘But I lied, you know.’
Ursu looked up. ‘You did?’
He nodded. ‘Shecumpeh in fact showed me something quite different. But you never told me what Shecumpeh revealed to you. Did he ask you, too, to guard the Great Book?’
Ursu blinked and almost dropped the bowl of half-mashed weed in his hands. ‘Turthe!’ he erupted, briefly forgetting the elderly scholar was by far his superior within the House of Shecumpeh. ‘You know I can’t speak of that! It’s—’
‘One of the sacred bonds between a priest and the god he worships? Piss and excrement, my lad.’ Ursu simply stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘The enemy is at the gates, and we may all be dead within days.
Vincent laughed nervously, but Eddie’s face remained grim. ‘Oh, come on, Eddie, what do you expect me to do – eat it? I mean, grilled or boiled?’
Vincent caught the glimmer of a grin at that remark, but immediately it was gone. Still, Eddie had relaxed a little. This was not like the man he knew, and Vincent had an inkling of the kind of pressure the other’s job must put him under. ‘So can you give me any idea of what’s on this thing?’
‘Only a little. It’s information that corroborates and supports your theories, too much so for my liking. But it’s really important you don’t spread this around, okay? I can’t say that often enough.’ Vincent raised his hands, palms displayed towards Eddie, in a placating gesture: point taken. Eddie rolled his eyes and swirled the coffee around in the bottom of his paper cup, then put it down again.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m only down here for a few days. I’m not even officially here, kind of, so I’ll have to come back. I’m going to shake some hands and do some politics, and I’ll be back here in two days’ time. Then you can tell me what you think of what’s on that smart-sheet.’
Ursu
More days passed, and Ursu waited for some further sign that he suspected, in his more candid reflections, would never come to pass.
He spent more time with Turthe, fulfilling his new duties as a Master-in-Waiting, but with less fervour or pleasure than he might have otherwise done.
‘Did I ever tell you how I came to be the Guardian of the Book of Shecumpeh?’ Turthe began one time, while Ursu studied some of the ancillary texts Turthe kept stored on shelves in his workroom. Most of those other works recorded events in other cities, other lands, information gained through trading or war.
‘No, I don’t think you ever did,’ said Ursu. He had earlier been helping Turthe grind down a particular form of stiff, puttylike fungi – called icewort – which grew mostly under the eaves of buildings, particularly after it had been raining. It was slimy to the touch and possessed a foul smell, but was a vital ingredient for producing ink.
Rumours continued that the army outside the walls was preparing for a grand assault any day now. There had been an exchange of messages during the last two days, and Ursu had been there when Nubala’s own message-bearer had re-entered the gates of the city. Ursu noticed how the messenger’s face had looked drawn, his ears spread flat and stiff across the back of his skull.
The icebeasts in their stables had finally been sacrificed to the needs of the people, and were even now being roasted, their meat cut into long strips and salted to preserve it. The hardships of siege had long since made Turthe painfully thin, and Ursu worried lest the old Master was too frail to survive much more of it.
‘It happened when I was young,’ Turthe continued, watching his pupil work.
‘Shecumpeh showed you the Great Book and told you that you were to be its Guardian?’ Ursu spoke more sharply than he had intended. ‘You told me so.’
‘So I did,’ he said. ‘But I lied, you know.’
Ursu looked up. ‘You did?’
He nodded. ‘Shecumpeh in fact showed me something quite different. But you never told me what Shecumpeh revealed to you. Did he ask you, too, to guard the Great Book?’
Ursu blinked and almost dropped the bowl of half-mashed weed in his hands. ‘Turthe!’ he erupted, briefly forgetting the elderly scholar was by far his superior within the House of Shecumpeh. ‘You know I can’t speak of that! It’s—’
‘One of the sacred bonds between a priest and the god he worships? Piss and excrement, my lad.’ Ursu simply stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘The enemy is at the gates, and we may all be dead within days.
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